


In a Child's Eyes

by FELover



Series: All Kinds of Love [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anger, F/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Other, Parenthood, Puberty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5789893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FELover/pseuds/FELover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Morgan watches with both wonder and horror as his new friend, just returned from a military academy he hated until the very last day he left, and his mother, a suburban divorcee with a lot of reasons to hurt, begin to fall in love with each other. </p><p>[Somebody had to write an Inigo x Robin fic in which Morgan really doesn't like this romance one bit, because Inigo could literally be his older brother and he's going through puberty, so it's a tough time.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Child's Eyes

“But there's a story behind everything. How a picture got on a wall. How a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother's story." - Mitch Albom, For One More Day. 

* * *

 

There’s a little wooden windmill on the neighbor’s front yard. When the blades turn there’s a gear that makes a wooden figure of a man swing his ax, chopping a log. Six ninety-five at the local store, a trinket like that. But our neighbor's got a knack for carving things on wood. It didn’t cost him anything.

One day I saw Olivia’s husband go into the woods at the back of their house, when the sun was beginning to set, one cold November afternoon, and he came back one and a half hours later, a thin layer of snow on each of his shoulders and a thick pile of short logs braced under each arm. I was wondering if those too were for carving, but that same night I saw smoke coming out of their chimney.

Shame. Lon’qu, from across the street, sometimes set to do his work with a blade with a tip like an eagle’s beak out on the sidewalk and he invited me to watch.

At times, I could pretend he was my dad.

A pat on the back.

He ruffles my hair.

Back to the windmill - a thing like that keeps the crows away. He and Olivia have a small plantation of corn going on. There’s a cab purring away down the street, now that its passenger has arrived. His name is Inigo, my mother tells me. I’m watching from the window above the sink in the kitchen.

Don’t you remember him? You used to play with him when you were kids.

I do the math. She says he’s at least seven years older than me. Our friendship couldn’t have lasted; when I was seven, he already was fourteen. And now that I’m fourteen, I can understand how he wouldn’t have wanted to associate himself with a snot-nosed brat. Still, I wonder, where’d he go to? I don’t remember him. I don’t remember much about those years. Hazy images, blurred like a painting lost in the waters of a dark sea.

I can only see certain things, like an old bicycle with a flat tire and broken dishes - everything sinking like some heavy rock into a dark pond. 

I suppose I remember dad a little.

The clearest image I have of him though, comes from a picture I once found inside my mother’s nightstand. Back then I still used look around the house for the hidden Christmas gifts. In the photo I found, mom and dad were in front of a cake. Not a wedding cake. Just a cake. No message written with frosting or anything at all. But mom was dressed in white - an almost see-through shirt allowing for a peek of her brassiere. Dad was holding a knife and his smile was a little off. Like smiling just didn’t suit him at that moment. Mom was pretty though. Hair slightly askew, angling her head away from dad’s attempt at a sloppy kiss with pouted lips.

Her cheeks were flushed, like she had a sunburn.

You should go and say hi, my mother tells me.

He probably doesn’t even remember me, I complain. _I_ don’t remember _him_.

I hear her sigh at my back and tap the table with the tip of her pencil - she’d doing taxes. Suit yourself, she says.

I’m done with the dishes now. It may be just my imagination, but as I turn away from the window I catch a fleeting image of our neighbor’s son looking my house’s way.

* * *

 

 There is a poster of a black hole in space on the wall opposite to my bed. I wonder if Inigo had posters in his room at this age too. I don’t know why I’m thinking about him - some twenty-one year old, who,according to my mother, I might have played ‘You’re It!’ with. I still have the box under my bed along with a week-old slice of pizza and my dirty socks.

You’d think I’d have some porn under there too. Magazines. Poker cards with nude models. Some booze too. Not drugs though. Mom has cannabis in her room and once every blue moon she lets me in on some. No doubt even her best friend, Olivia again, from across the street, would call child services if she knew. But mom says better I get it from her than from some weirdo off the streets.

It’s for medicinal purposes.

I don’t know all the details, but I think dad had something to do with it. Her leg, I mean. She has a slight limp. All mom’s ever told me is that it happened in a car crash. And I think I remember swinging my legs over the edge of a hard plastic chair inside a white room, fluorescent lights over my head. At some point someone put me on their lap and whispered to me from behind: You’re mom’s going to be fine.

There’s a chiming tone now. I look at the poster on the wall, my eyes clearing from the fog. I wait for another sound and seconds later… there it is. Someone’s ringing the doorbell.

Then my mother - Coming!

It’s Olivia. Or her husband, Lon’qu. Or both. No one else visits.

Well, that’s kind of a lie.

Long, long ago. Three months into the past, to be more precise, there was a girl.

But we’re nothing to each other now.

* * *

 

 Military school, Inigo says. It’s no joke.

Lon'qu snorts, It isn't _supposed_ to be. 

They're all sitting at the kitchen table, so there really isn't any space for me there. I am leaning against a counter and Inigo sits on the chair with one leg shorter than the rest, but he doesn’t seem to mind. This kind of guy, I suppose, is not one of those who mind much. Bright eyes like there’s a small sun behind each. Active hands. Slender fingers. A big grin.

And hair like ‘fuck it', but also a bit like, 'I wake up like this.’

Not what you’d expect from someone who went to military school for however many years he says. I’m not really paying attention.

At some point he says what I’d been thinking: You don’t remember me, do you Morgan?

I shrug and I try to make it look casual - _cool_.

My mother - I can’t see her face since she’s taking beer out of the fridge and offering it to Olivia and her husband (they say she doesn't have to get up to get them stuff to drink, but she's stubborn like that), but I know she wants to strangle me right now. I can almost read her thoughts: Don’t be such an ass.

If I’m interpreting things right, that glimmer in Inigo’s eyes means he knows that in reality I’m just a gawky nobody who hides the stained sheets at the bottom of the laundry basket, and that’s the only time I volunteer to do laundry. I must spend all my nights thinking of girls way out of my league too, right? And sometimes as well I fantasize about his mom.

Well, he’s right about two things.

You could say his mom also belongs in the out-of-my-league category, for more than one reason, so putting my fantasies about her as a thing of its own is kind of overstating.

What are you up to these days, kid?

Oh, yes. I think I heard that right. He just called me a kid.

I’m about to say something that will sound polite like somebody asking if you’d like more sugar on your coffee, but that actually means go fuck yourself. But it never comes out of my mouth. I see my mother - you have to understand, this is my mother - passing him a bottle.

And he winks at her.

I should be mad, right? I should be. I have the right. Oddly though, when Lon’qu swats Inigo's head lightly with the back of his palm, and Olivia bursts into not very honest giggles, I think I’m a little swooned. It's a bit of a wonder to see all this play out in _my_ house. I don't know... this thing I feel in my chest, it might be a kind of love. Or maybe it's just gas. 

The light, which flickers like it’s about to go out - I need to put light bulbs in mom’s grocery list soon -, is right above Inigo’s head.

There isn’t much to do, I hear myself say. Shitty little town, you know?

It feels good. It shouldn’t, but it does. Here in our tiny kitchen with greasy walls, Lon’qu still shaking his head at his son and grunting, Olivia commenting on the new tablecloth mom bought from a catalog and Inigo slicking back his hair while mom completely ignores him… It feels good.

* * *

 

 We’re in his garage. There’s dozens of wooden figurines on one table pushed up against a wall.

I don’t like doing things that I know I shouldn’t be doing. Things that would upset mom. It's not like she'd reprimand me, I know she wouldn't. But her look of disappointment would be enough, and if that sounds too good... Well, that's tough. I'm not asking anyone to believe me, but that's how it is. Maybe I'm just sort of a wimp. I don’t yet know if going into the woods is something that would upset her - probably not at this moment, she was in her room smoking when I left, she must be over the stars and the moon -, but it gnaws at me.

I feel sick.

Here, Inigo says. He found what he was looking for.

It’s one of his father’s knives, long and scary. Like a maniac’s sadistic silver grin.

Ever held one like that?

I shake my head.

My dad tells me you like to watch him carve.

I just _watch_ , I insist.

Well, don’t be too intimidated, he nods at the knife and frowns at how I’m holding it. He takes my hand and makes me squeeze the handle. A loose grip is more dangerous than a firm one, he says. 

I’ll remember that. I know I will. His voice is echoing in my head already. It’s an empty cave up there, on top of my neck. I look at him like he’s the light pouring into the cavern’s mouth.

He smiles.

So? he asks. Ever gone hunting?

* * *

 

I suppose you sometimes must wonder why you don’t have any siblings, my mother tells me.

It’s embarrassing. She’s had one too many puffs, I can tell. It would be fine if it was just me with her on the couch, but it’s not. I don’t know when the habit started, but Inigo visits a lot now. We play video games. Sometimes we just talk.

That’s cool, he said once about the poster in my room. At fourteen he already was enrolled in that god-awful, piece-of-shit school that his father wanted him to attend and the walls around him were all bare and blank. Couldn’t even sleep when he wanted. Didn’t have a say about fuck-all.

Did they teach you how to skin animals there? I asked him.

Yeah, he said and shrugged. One of the few things I actually liked. Kind of a way to let all the anger out. Just do it for sport now, though.

I hummed. I believed him. He didn't look like the violent type, but you could tell that at any given moment, under provocation, the suns behind his eyes could cease to be. Out, the lights. He could convince himself to let his eyes dull as he went to hide somewhere dark, to do things that needed to be done. 

He went over the books on my shelf and made some noises of curiosity at some of the titles. He then plopped down on my bed and snatched away my comic book. I wasn’t reading it anymore anyway.

Want a burger? he asked. Put on a jacket, I’ll take us to town.

I smiled a twisted smile.

I don’t know, I told him. My mom…

I’ll take her too, he said. Come on. The three of us.

It sounded kind of weird… the three of us. I still nodded though.

OK.

OK?

Yeah… I nodded again. If mom’s alright with it.

I was expecting her to say no. But she didn’t. And that’s how we ended up in one of those family tables outlining the dance floor where old couples danced at a snail’s pace.

As was custom whenever mom and I went out, which wasn’t often, she sat opposite to me. Inigo, who made my eyes go a little wide as he did this, sat by my mother’s side.

Dinner’s on me, he said. Order away.

My mouth was slightly agape. Not so much so that it guaranteed somebody warning me about flies, but just enough to make mom give me an odd look. Like for the life of her she couldn’t figure out what the problem was.

And it wasn’t such a big deal, right? Sure, he was sitting with my mom, but he had to sit somewhere. So what if he just happened to drop his butt there? It was just a seat. He could have chosen to sit by my side, but he didn’t. But that didn’t have to mean anything, right? It was just a stupid seat, for fuck’s sake…

I think I just want a coke, I said.

Really? he offered again. I’m serious, you can order anything.

I’m OK.

You don’t look OK, hon, my mother chimed in. Did the ride make you nauseous?

My reflection on the metallic side of our table’s napkin holder did look sort of sick.

I can ask if they got pepto-bismol somewhere around, Inigo offered.

I’m just not hungry.

Which was a lie. Neither mom nor I had remembered to cook that evening. Only thing I had the whole day was lunch at school, trying to avoid Lucy’s eyes…

The nausea eventually faded, as did my awareness of the things going on around. For example, I didn’t notice when my mother disappeared. And I didn’t care a whole lot. She was a grown woman, she could go wherever she liked. But perhaps I should have noticed when Inigo stood up too, and went to find her.

By the time I looked up from the table - I guess I’d grown sleepy and let my head drop for a while - I spotted Inigo across the dance floor and my mother too, the skin on their faces dotted with the multi-colored lights of the large rotating disco ball on the ceiling. My mother looked the same as always, her eyes dark and drooping, like she was tired all the time.

But then she smiled at something Inigo said - something lost to my ears among the hubbub of the old crowd.

They shouldn’t have looked like they belonged in that place, but they did. It was like watching a movie scene play out perfectly on its first take. The look on their eyes was the stuff that would have made everyone in the theater think the romance expanded beyond the big screen.

I rubbed my face when they stepped onto the dance floor (mom didn't dance). I blinked owlishly when Inigo’s hands went to her hips. And I finally puked when she let her head rest on his chest.

Did I ever wonder why I didn’t have any siblings? I suppose I did, at some point. But I already have an answer: Because dad left.

Mom shakes her head. He didn’t leave, she left.

Inigo nods. He doesn’t know who’d leave someone like her, he says.

What are you doing? I want to ask. He’s letting me kick his ass in the game.

Mom is sitting on the armrest on Inigo’s side. I tried not thinking anything of it at first, but now her arm is stretched over the backrest and Inigo leans back. This is no time to relax, I’m seriously going to wipe the floor with him.

He and I had fun, mom says. Your father and I.

I know her words are directed at me, but it doesn’t sound like I’m the one she wants to hear.

Too much fun, in fact. That’s how the wreck happened. That’s how I did my leg in.

I know that, I tell her.

Who was driving? Inigo asks.

He was, my mother responds. I was pregnant at the time.

My hands freeze for a moment. Nobody does anything for a time. But then I smash a button and, like I predicted, I win. There’s blood everywhere on the screen.

This same night I’m alone in my room again. I’ve a comic book open before me on the bed, but I can’t see anything. It’s hollow, up here in my head. My blood is hot in my veins. It’s animal blood, like that blood that sprayed on my face when Inigo was teaching me how to skin a rabbit in the thicket at the back of his house.

He still lives there, by the way. He says he’s looking for place of his own, but credit and prices and blah, blah, blah… Stuff I don’t have to think about yet. He’s older than I thought though, I realize now.

He’s still downstairs. I can still hear his voice and mom’s. Mom talks more than he, but when he does speak - a muffled sound obstructed by walls - his voice carries a weight. An understanding that you can't just be born with; you gotta learn.

Later, I hear them going up the stairs. I know the groans of our house, perhaps like mothers know what the crying of their babies mean. The walls are so thin I can hear the ticking of the clock in my mother’s room. I have never needed to set any alarms, hers wakes me up anyway.

Her room is back to back with mine.

The minute sounds of her room were never something I thought about twice. Just like you don’t think about your own breathing or your own heart beating.

I think that rustle is the bedsheets being drawn back.

I realize now, that she hasn’t snuck her head into my room through the gap I always leave. No sweet dreams. No sleep well. Not tonight.

My mother gave me her own strange version of The Talk long ago. Everyone talks about secretions and body functions, she told me. Nobody remembers to tell you what desire is like.

What she meant by the desire, I guess as I hear a sigh from her lips that makes my stomach churn, is that breathless string of mewling sounds trickling down on me, like there’s a leak and drops are falling from the rocky ceiling of my cave. 

I know what her weight settling on her bed sounds like, so I know she’s not alone this time, because this new sound is not familiar at all.

There are words. Quiet. Few and far in between.

I don’t know why I can’t move, or if I’m still breathing.

I know only one of many muddy things squirming inside my heart right now. It’s black and fierce. A little like being torn apart or stabbed. Like the knife Inigo gave me once, stuck in my chest, _twisting_.

**Author's Note:**

> I had waaaaaaaaay too much fun writing this.
> 
> You may be wondering, what kind of military school did Inigo attend that lasted till his twenties? One that doesn't exist. This is fiction though, so I think it's alright. Forgive me if I don't pay much attention to being descriptive with settings. I just don't think it's that important. Also, I know I should be writing 'Live a Little', which I am doing. I'm just brimming with ideas. Had to write this. I just had to. You know what else is in the works too? A Priam x Robin fic in which father and son go on an Outrealm adventure in search of Morgan's lost half-sibling, oh shit. 
> 
> But that's coming waaaaaaaay down the road. I'm just putting it out there to see who thinks the idea stinks (and who thinks different).
> 
> Also, yes, this is coming in parts. Like in the A Son's Love series.


End file.
